The Minotauress (15 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
"Howdy, girls! What'cha all doin' this fine night?"
The little girls exchanged wide-eyed glances, then one peeped, "We'se havin' a pajama party so's my ma's gettin' us some sodas and cheese doodles."
"Well, that sounds like a lot'a fun!"
Just then the woman rushed up to the car. "Who're you? What'choo doin' talkin' to my kids! Just you get out'a here!"
"Aw, ma'am, I'se was just sayin' hi," Balls replied and—
smack!—
hit her right in the forehead with his blackjack. She collapsed, instantly unconscious, while the little girls in the backseat burst into a round of ear-piercing shrieks.
smack!—
hit her right in the forehead with his blackjack. She collapsed, instantly unconscious, while the little girls in the backseat burst into a round of ear-piercing shrieks.
Balls whipped out his penis and wasted no time in relieving the volume of his bladder. He fired the hot, yard-long stream right into the back seat, swaying back and forth across the horrified little chipmunk faces. The little girls shrieked like referee whistles.
Balls zipped up quick, snagged the woman's purse and a bag of cheese doodles, then jogged back to the El Camino.
"Holy shit, Balls!" Dicky yelled when his cohort jumped back in. "What the fuck?"
"Drive, Dicky! Drive!"
Dicky dumped the ‘Mino's clutch and pulled a 450-horsepower hole-shot out of the parking lot. Tires screamed, rubber burned, and the engine's roar fractured the night. Dicky careened out, then lead-footed it off the main drag.
Balls cackled laughter.
"Jaysus Chrast, Balls! You just jacked a lady out and peed on her kids!"
"Yeah. Cool, huh?"
Dicky's face darkened with rage. "Someone could'a seen! What if a cop drove by when you was pullin' that stunt?"
"Aw, shee-it, Dicky. The parkin' lot was empty and there weren't another car on the street. Relax."
"Relax?"
Dicky sped as far away from the incident as he could without dumping the car. Within minutes they were cruising through more winding, dark roads through the woods.
The dashboard lights tinted Balls' grinning face. He rooted through the woman's purse, snatched up some bills, then threw the rest out the window. "Dang! That beat bitch had sixty bucks on her."
"Fuck, Balls!" Dicky continued to bellow. "What the FUCK did'ja do that fer?"
Balls shook his head. "I don't rightly know, Dicky. It just come inta my head to do it. ‘Sides, I had ta pee
bad
and I'se thought it might be interestin' to do it on them little girls."
bad
and I'se thought it might be interestin' to do it on them little girls."
"Interestin'! We could get throwed in jail fer that! And you's on fuckin' parole anyway!"
"Aw, ferget it." Balls busted open the bag. "Here. Have a cheese doodle."
"I don't want no fuckin' cheese doodle!" Dicky glared in disbelief. "You are
crazy,
man!
Crazy!
"
crazy,
man!
Crazy!
"
Balls sat back, munching contemplatively. "Naw, Dicky. I ain't crazy." He smiled out the window, into the endless night. "I'se just followin' my nature... "
(IV)
The Writer left the Crossroads—fairly drunk—in the vicinity of midnight. Just as he shuffled across the gravel parking lot, he was given a start by a sudden avalanche of noise, a great, clamorous
chugging
that reminded him of one of those ridiculous four-engine powerboats pulling up to a dock. But this was no boat, it was a vintage black El Camino. The Writer sighed in relief when the engine racket severed.
It should be against the law for cars to be that loud...
Two figures disembarked amid the shadows. The Writer heard some quick redneck dialect: "Aw, shee-it, Dicky! Yous should'a seen their faces when I'se was hosin' 'em down with my kidney juice! Oooo-eee!" Then the figures entered the bar.
chugging
that reminded him of one of those ridiculous four-engine powerboats pulling up to a dock. But this was no boat, it was a vintage black El Camino. The Writer sighed in relief when the engine racket severed.
It should be against the law for cars to be that loud...
Two figures disembarked amid the shadows. The Writer heard some quick redneck dialect: "Aw, shee-it, Dicky! Yous should'a seen their faces when I'se was hosin' 'em down with my kidney juice! Oooo-eee!" Then the figures entered the bar.
Kidney juice?
the Writer thought.
the Writer thought.
The moon watched him through gnarled trees when he took the narrow road out of the woods to the main street. Did he hear a wolf howl?
No. Power of suggestion.
Crickets trilled in a palpable throb; he thought of old Tangerine Dream records.
Damn. Cigarettes,
he reminded himself, and turned with some trepidation toward the Qwik-Mart. Out front a man in a suit and tie was getting into what appeared to be a Rolls Royce; the Writer immediately noted that the man had inadvertently placed his wallet on top of the car when he'd extracted his keys, then forgot to reclaim it when he got behind the wheel. He backed out and began to pull away, and the wallet slid off the car onto the pavement.
No. Power of suggestion.
Crickets trilled in a palpable throb; he thought of old Tangerine Dream records.
Damn. Cigarettes,
he reminded himself, and turned with some trepidation toward the Qwik-Mart. Out front a man in a suit and tie was getting into what appeared to be a Rolls Royce; the Writer immediately noted that the man had inadvertently placed his wallet on top of the car when he'd extracted his keys, then forgot to reclaim it when he got behind the wheel. He backed out and began to pull away, and the wallet slid off the car onto the pavement.
"Hey! Wait!" the Writer called out. He jogged over. At least a dozen credit cards and various ID's had slid out of the wallet as well. He scooped them all up and jogged over. The car idled at the exit, a man looking out.
"Yes?"
"You left your wallet on the car and it fell off."
The debonair-looking driver frowned at himself. "I must have left my wits at home today. How stupid of me."
"Some of your credit cards slipped out but I picked them up," the Writer said, and handed it all over to the well-groomed older man.
"Honesty is such a rare commodity these days. You're one of a choice few, and you have my thanks." Then the man handed the Writer a $100 bill.
"Oh, really, sir, I couldn't—"
"Take it, with my compliments... " The man's face seemed to darken as he smiled. "What a tenuous power... The power of truth... "
The Writer stared as the Rolls Royce drove off.
The comment unnerved him, even though he knew it to be sheer coincidence. But then his shoulders slumped as he headed back for the store. A lone credit card lay in the parking lot.
Damn, I missed one.
The Rolls Royce was long gone now. He pocketed the card and resolved to call the 1-800 number on the back tomorrow.
Damn, I missed one.
The Rolls Royce was long gone now. He pocketed the card and resolved to call the 1-800 number on the back tomorrow.
In the store a tall young man with a shaved head was buying several cans of refried beans and jalapeno peppers. He wore a swastika earring, and had a tattoo on a bulging deltoid which read: ARYAN NATION. Was the man whistling "The Sound of Music" when he left?
"You again," the visored, old proprietor greeted. "The Writer."
"It's good to see you, sir."
"Shee-it. You 'bout done with this fancy book'a yers?"
I've only written one and a half sentences...
"It's coming along. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know."
"It's coming along. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know."
"Rome, huh? My brother fought the Germans in Italy. After they up'n killed everything that moved, they went on leave to fuckin' Rome. Said ya needed a clothespin on yer nose to fuck the whores."
"How... elucidating," the Writer remarked.
The proprietor snorted. "Said the whores in Rome were the hairiest whores he ever done seen. Even hairier than the krauts."
"Hmm. Hirsute prostitutes... "
The proprietor frowned. "Said they had so much hair under their arms you'd have thought they had the Black Panthers in a fuckin' headlock."
The Writer stood speechless.
"Ya ever read the shortest book ever written?"
"What's that?" the Writer had to ask.
"The History of Italian War Heroes!" and the proprietor slapped his knees and guffawed out loud. Then he began walking toward a rear door.
"Uh, sir?" The Writer raised a finger. "I was going to buy something, and I'm rather in a hurry... "
The proprietor glared. "I gotta take a shit! Do ya mind? Or I guess ya think that 'cos you're the customer, I gotta
shit my pants
'cos you're
rather
in a hurry! Fuck!"
shit my pants
'cos you're
rather
in a hurry! Fuck!"
The man's cane tapped the floor as he disappeared.
I love this place,
the Writer thought. He browsed the aisles, and took several Three Musketeers to the counter. A small television squawked next to the cigar rack. The Writer's eyes bloomed...
the Writer thought. He browsed the aisles, and took several Three Musketeers to the counter. A small television squawked next to the cigar rack. The Writer's eyes bloomed...
"Don't throw those leftovers away!" spoke an animated voiceover as a Donna Reed-looking housewife dumped a plate of food into a kitchen wastebasket. "Now you can save hundreds, even thousands of dollars a year with the amazing, new Therm-O-Fresh!" Now the housewife emptied another plate of food into a plastic bag. "You can freeze it, you can boil it, you can microwave it! Now your leftovers will taste as fresh as the day you bought them when you use the Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System!" The housewife slipped a plastic tube into the bag, then pushed a button on a machine about the size of a box of aluminum foil. The plastic bag collapsed, as the tube sucked all the air out of it. "The Therm-O-Fresh patented one-touch vacuum instantly removes all the air from your valuable leftovers, then seals the storage bag in seconds." Next the edge of the bag was placed in a groove on the machine which heat-sealed it shut. Donna Reed was amazed.
That's the thing the two girls were fighting over at the motel,
the Writer realized.
the Writer realized.
"Keep nuts, cookies, pretzels, even potato chips fresh as the day you bought them! The Therm-O-Fresh System includes five specially-designed jars with air-lock tops that you can use over and over again!" Now, the housewife stuck the tube into a valve of some sort on top of a jar full of popcorn. "Watch what our patented lifetime-guaranteed industrial-strength vacuum does to this popcorn!" She pushed the button and the popcorn collapsed like magic in the jar. "Not available in stores! Call now while supplies last! Get the patented Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System for just four easy payments of $49.95. That's right, just $49.95! And if you call within the next ten minutes, you'll receive a year's supply of patented Therm-O-Fresh vacuum bags absolutely free!"
"Ain't that some shit?" the proprietor returned, glaring at the TV. "Fuckin' Red China's buildin' a hunnert nukes a day to shoot at us, and all we're makin' is a bunch'a fuckin' Chia Pets'n these goddamn Cabbage Patch dolls'n some fuckin' shit called Windows 3.0! What's the country comin' to?"
"I couldn't hazard a speculation," the Writer said, "but I would like a carton of generic lights."
"Fuck! You could at least buy Marlboros... "
When the old crank rang up the purchase, the Writer handed him the $100 bill from the Rolls Royce guy.
"Do I look like the fuckin' U.S. Treasury? I cain't break that!"
Now the Writer fumbled with his ankle-wallet, and put down a twenty.
"Shee-it." The proprietor slapped the change down on the counter.
The Writer sighed.
I come in here every week...
He slid two quarters over. "And a bag, please."
I come in here every week...
He slid two quarters over. "And a bag, please."
"Jesus! One dollar!"
The Writer winced but paid nonetheless. "Have a pleasant evening."
"A pleasant evening? You shittin' me? My hemorrhoids itch so bad I could run a fuckin' cactus through my crack!"
The Writer took long strides out of the store, just as a half-dozen Hispanics entered. The old man could be heard in the background even after the door closed. "What is this? The fuckin' Alamo?"
The Writer contemplated Faulkner's
The Sound and the Fury
as he walked back to the Gilman House. How clever of the Mississippi Nobel Prize winner to title his novel from a line in Shakespeare's
Macbeth.
The Writer recited the ironic lines with each step back to the whorehouse:
Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing...
The Sound and the Fury
as he walked back to the Gilman House. How clever of the Mississippi Nobel Prize winner to title his novel from a line in Shakespeare's
Macbeth.
The Writer recited the ironic lines with each step back to the whorehouse:
Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing...
Indeed, the "idiot's" view of the world proved the most truthful...
The previous chorus of crickets was absent now, leaving dead-silence to hover through the night. At the front drive, he noticed Mrs. Gilman's mailbox hanging open; three long boxes were inside along with several envelopes. He gathered it all up and went inside.
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